


all i want is everything we never had before (i still want more)

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slight Hurt/Comfort, implied mclennon if you squint, post breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: some things never change, he thinks as he’s led to a table for two. the world around them has become a twisted, fucked up mangle of what things used to be, but they’re still john lennon and paul mccartney, running late and doing everything at once. he almost laughs. something bitter traps the sound in his throat, and he sits alone at a table in a restaurant in new york, waiting to meet his former best friend for dinner.it could be worse, he thinks. but not by much.





	all i want is everything we never had before (i still want more)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't proofread my oneshots oops!

paul takes a careful drag on his cigarette, staring blankly at the building in front of him. he needs to hurry- someone will spot him, and he really isn’t in the mood for autographs. he hasn’t been for some years now. he’s really not in the mood to meet with john, either.

it’s been four years. they haven’t exactly been nice to each other in those years, he thinks bitterly as he tosses the cigarette onto the sidewalk and stamps it out with his foot. he’s already itching for another smoke. they’ve written nasty, vile songs about each other like letters in the shape of missiles, knowing exactly where to target the enemy so it hits just close enough to home for it to sting. how they ended up this way isn’t lost on him. 

he remembers the end vividly. immortalized it in two albums at once, like the gemini bastard he is. 

when paul finally walks inside, tells the hostess who he’s with, he almost laughs that john is running late. some things never change, he thinks as he’s led to a table for two. the world around them has become a twisted, fucked up mangle of what things used to be, but they’re still john lennon and paul mccartney, running late and doing everything at once. he almost laughs. something bitter traps the sound in his throat, and he sits alone at a table in a restaurant in new york, waiting to meet his former best friend for dinner. 

it could be worse, he thinks. but not by much.

it’s another ten minutes before the chair across from paul screeches, and his gaze flicks upward against his will. something about how familiarly unfamiliar john looks nowadays. he’s got the familiar long hair, the half-familiar glasses- no longer looking like buddy holly, but rounder and somehow more distinctly john- that pointed nose and those tightly drawn lips, perpetually looking uncomfortable or pissed. (it’s usually because he’s one or the other, or both. today he looks slightly more uncomfortable, and paul has to agree.)

“how are you, son?”

paul wants to laugh. he thinks he might also want to cry, but it’s buried beneath his wry amusement with how characteristically nonchalant he should’ve expected john to be. “dead pleased,” he half-spits. he takes a breath in an effort to keep things civil. (he had promised linda that much.) “i’m good, john, how are you?”

john just looks at him for a long moment. paul can feel his familiar, prying stare. “i’m really good,” he answers. paul meets john’s gaze with equal scrutiny. 

“that’s good.”

john is being shockingly honest, he realizes, and now he really knows the extent to which things have changed. to get a vulnerable word out of john lennon usually took years of subtle prying (and countless booze,) and here he was, letting paul take a real glimpse at his inner world. something twists in his chest at the realization. 

“have you ordered?”

“not yet, was waiting for you.”

john’s lips twist into a tiny smirk. “oh, macca, you shouldn’t have. what a real gentleman you are.”

“right, don’t make me regret it already,” paul shoots back easily. he’s trying his damndest not to smile. it isn’t working. 

conversation fades naturally until a waiter approaches. they order- paul is trying to look like he’s not watching john like a fucking hawk while he isn’t looking, and he knows he’s failing given the wry, knowing smile john gives him. 

the silence that follows is less organic, more tense and unknowing. paul can feel the distance that’s kept them at odds since abbey road and long before it, a palpable distance that’s been growing with time, pulling them together and pushing them apart from the day they met. it makes his gut twist and writhe in plain dismay. he should’ve known this wouldn’t be easy. 

(he did. truth be told, he almost hadn’t come.)

“tell me we aren’t going to be dead silent all night,” john breaks in, looking equally troubled. paul laughs under his breath. at least they’re in that together. 

“i should hope not,” paul replies. noncommittal. safe. there is a palpable distance between them, and he doesn’t know how to cross it. he doesn’t know if it’s a distance able to be crossed. 

john is analyzing him again. their eyes meet across the narrow table that feels a million miles wide, and paul lets himself be picked apart by john’s scrutinizing gaze. there are too many walls for paul to maintain at once these days. some of them john has always found his way around. some of them were built particularly to keep john out of his head. he lowers as many as he thinks he can. 

“i don’t like being angry with you,” john tells him frankly. he’s fidgeting with a napkin as he speaks, carefully unfolding it from around the silverware. “i never have. it’s bloody tiring being angry with you, being angry with your best friend.”

paul’s mouth drops open, then quickly closes, jaw setting for a moment. “are we?”

“what?”

“best friends.” john stares. “i mean, i know we were.”

“paul,” john says gently, “i never stopped being your best friend.”

paul wants to cry. he laughs instead. “it’s not like we’ve acted like friends for some time, have we?”

“maybe not,” john admits. one hand drops from the napkin and settles halfway across the table. “we don’t have to keep fighting.”

there’s a pause when their dinner arrives. they thank the waiter with polite smiles and nods, and that same gaping silence returns. they eat in silence for a while. paul pokes at his salad halfheartedly, appetite long gone. his stomach was too full of knots.

“not fighting doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best buddies again,” paul says. “besides, you live in america now.”

john cocks his head to the side. “what, do you miss me?”

paul wants to smack him upside the head. “of course i miss you, don’t be fucking daft,” he grumbles. john watches him silently, curiously. “i’ve always missed you.”

“paul-”

“at fucking abbey road, i missed you,” paul cuts in. john’s mouth snaps shut. “when you were out of your mind on heroin, i missed you. we weren’t just a couple of best friends when the band broke up, you know. the whole thing was falling apart.”

“and you were trying to hold it all together,” john recalls. 

“of _course_ i was!” paul snaps. “doing let it be, that was the worst fucking time of my life, you know why? because i was losing you. all of you. you were long gone, george was well on his way out, ringo- neither of us knew what to do if we weren’t a group. you guys-” paul cuts himself off, swallowing hard. he’s not going to get choked up. he’s too afraid it’ll turn john cold and indifferent again, too afraid his own walls will come rocketing back into place. “you were the only thing i knew. the only thing i’d ever known, and i didn’t want to lose you.” paul scoffs. “fat lot of good that did us, huh?”

the two rock stars fall silent, not quite meeting eyes, for several long moments. paul takes a bite of lettuce and strawberry, wincing. 

it’s several minutes before he feels a hand on his, grasping his right sitting clenched in a fist on the table, covering it. paul’s head snaps up, and john’s face is much closer, leaning over the table to reach him. paul swallows hard and stares back, unwavering.

“i understand why you did what you did,” john says slowly. “really. and i- well, i wasn’t in the best place, to say the least. i was feeling… caged in by the whole machine. i wanted to do something else, and you wanted to keep doing what we were doing. and so… we fought.” john pauses. underneath his palm, paul’s hand relaxes a bit, and john grasps it tighter. “and we got angry with each other. but i’m not angry with you anymore, paulie.”

it’s the twist of the knife, and paul’s composure starts to crack. his gaze diverts quickly to their hands, where john has started to turn his so he can lace their fingers together. something long forgotten and very forbidden bubbles in his stomach, and he forces it down quickly. baby steps. “i… won’t lie,” paul says. “i’m still kind of fucking pissed with you.”

at that, john laughs. when paul glances up at him, he’s smiling wide, and it’s warm and familar. paul can’t help but mirror it. “that’s alright,” john assures him.

“but i don’t want to fight you anymore,” paul continues slowly. “i never wanted to fight. you’re horrible to fight with, honestly.”

“i don’t know, i think i make a fine sparring partner.”

paul wants to say, _you made a finer writing partner_ , but he doesn’t. “things get ugly too fast with us two,” he says instead. “did get some good songs out of it, though, didn’t we?”

john barks a laugh. “if nothing else.” he squeezes paul’s hand again, and this time, paul squeezes it back. he laughs a little at the absurdity of it all. 

“i won’t write songs about you if you don’t write songs about me.”

there’s a curious glint in john’s eye when he says, “i can’t promise i won’t write songs about you,” and it makes paul shift and sit upright,  fighting to keep from going defensive. “they won’t be angry songs, though.”

“well, what are you gonna write me, then, love songs?”

john winks at him. “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“not from you,” paul lies. it’s thoroughly unconvincing. 

conversation shifts from the tense to the mundane over the course of dinner. paul hears about new york, the coming baby, the studio, the violinist who thought john wrote yesterday- that makes paul laugh out loud, a real laugh. he tells john about the farm, the new band, the kids. it’s simple in a way they haven’t been for years. he can’t recall the last time he and john sat and talked about everything and nothing. hell, they end up discussing the new york weather for a solid minute, and it isn’t awkward or unpleasant. paul wonders what stars aligned to make this reunion possible. 

it’s short lived. they part after dinner with a clap on the shoulder, a nod, a smile, and an empty promise to keep in touch. paul flags down the nearest taxi. he hadn’t expected much from the visit, and he isn’t sure why he feels so empty now.

“hey, paul?”

paul turns his head and looks to john where he’s turned to walk the opposite direction. “yeah?”

the taxi pulls up to the curb, but before he can open the door, john is striding quickly to cross the distance and pull paul into a tight hug. 

at first, paul has no idea how to react. they’re _liverpool_ boys. they’re _men_. they don’t do physical contact. he cannot remember the last time he’s hugged john, if they ever hugged at all. it’s strange and it’s foreign and it’s on display for the whole world, and paul is hugging him back before he realizes what he’s doing, what they’re doing, for the first time in years. 

a flood of too-close, heavily repressed memories flood to mind from the contact alone, memories of cramped spaces and full body contact and huddling and giggling and sleeping chest to back, and maybe they never properly hugged back then, but he knew john inside and out like the back of his hand one way or another.

john steps back too soon, and paul’s arms drop uselessly to his sides, a look of shocked confusion plain on his face. john is grinning at him stupidly. “what’s the occasion, then?”

john just shrugs. “touch is good,” he says. “i’ll see you.”

“yeah,” paul answers distantly. john is already walking away with a short wave. “see you.”

he gets into the taxi, and fights not to watch john disappear around the corner.


End file.
